Just Staying
by We All Do Silly Things
Summary: Three years later, John's still texting a dead man. "Alright, you prick. Since you insist on staying dead..."
1. Chapter 1

Every time John wakes up, he feels as though he's been trapped in a horrid nightmare, only to open his eyes and discover that it isn't during sleep that nightmares claim him. The nightmare is all around him. As he listlessly moves through his flat, setting water to boil, preparing a cup of coffee, he notices the cold absence of snarky commentary on his recent dates (of which there have been few to none recently,) of heads or fingers concealed by a cake box in the freezer, of his best friend, the consulting detective, lazily commandeering his laptop or mobile phone to contact some psychopath because his was just too far a walk across the room.

Every morning he waits for Sherlock to burst in and harpoon the wall, or leap into his armchair, squirm, tap his fingers spasmodically, and profess loudly how bored he is, how dull everyday life tends to be, and how he's managed, overnight, to alienate the whole of Scotland Yard by making each one of them realize their own shortcomings with various bold yet spot-on deductions made by a brilliant unfiltered mind.

He sits down with his coffee and hisses at a shooting pain in his leg. Even though he knows it to be at least partially psychosomatic, that does not dull the ache one bit as he rubs his palm up and down the leg of his trousers, hoping the friction will relax the muscle as he straightens it out.

When he decided to move back to 221B, it was a hopeful, desperate action that ended in nothing but disappointment, in heartbreak, in abject loneliness. After the first few months immediately following Sherlock's… (he couldn't bring himself to admit it past the Ella's office, just the once,) well, following it, he'd been in such a terrible depression that he stayed in bed for nearly a week. He didn't come to work, didn't answer his phone, didn't update his blog, and had Lestrade nearly convinced he'd offed himself the day the detective inspector visited to ensure that this was not the case.

He'd even had Mycroft worried, apparently, as it was the elder Holmes who'd called the Yard to check up on him. Heaven knows he wouldn't do so himself. He'd alienated John in the way he'd done his younger brother. He'd lost both their trust, and John, who could hold a much more fiery grudge than Sherlock, felt such a stabbing hatred for Mycroft that he'd had Mrs. Hudson hide his supply of bullets in anticipation that if he had a way he might have tried to go after him.

Of course this didn't stop him from imagining other methods. Once he was at this point, however- this point of no return, of imagining torturing Mycroft- he had to reel himself back with the icily accepted notion that though Mycroft was a conniving, evil sellout in his mind, somewhere deep inside he had genuinely tried to right the atrocities he'd committed against his brother by enlisting John as Sherlock's keeper. Perhaps living on with the guilt- if he could feel guilt- of having caused his brother's final disgrace would be a much better torture than anything the former military man could ever hope to inflict upon him.

John delicately placed his porcelain cup on the coffee table and bowed over his knees. His fingers rose to his temples and massaged the sides of his head as he let out a long sigh. Yes, he had to admit to himself that there came a time after his grieving where he actually had convinced himself that it was all a trick of Sherlock's . A cruel, heartless trick, surely, but a trick nonetheless. He'd waited for Sherlock's return for nearly a year, and perhaps he was still waiting, but he'd lost hope now. He stayed at 221B for no other reason than he couldn't be arsed to move everything out and start fresh, not when he barely had the energy or will to live and breathe and continue to exist.

"Mm," he hums unpleasantly into his hands, which are now covering his eyes, as a scene replays on the insides of his eyelids- Sherlock, standing on the roof of St Bart's, Sherlock, saying somewhat uncertainly "It's what people do, isn't it?" as if he weren't human, yet in his final moments, he was trying to be.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock says, and then he falls, and his coat streams above him like a torn parachute, and John hears the dull crunching thud and he's hit by a bicyclist, and they won't let him touch him, _he's my friend, he's my friend, let me_-!

"No!" John shouts, shoving his hands into his short hair and loosing just once raw sob as he shakes his head. "Sod this," he breathes, pushing himself from the couch where Sherlock used to stretch out his long body for hours without speaking, his hands steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin.

It has been two years, eleven months, and twenty nine days exactly. Tomorrow will mark the three-year anniversary of John's solitary confinement to which he subjects himself every day, not physically but in his own mind- a much worse prison, to be sure.

John pushes a stack of papers from the coffee table and lets them litter the floor as he gropes for his mobile phone. He unlocks it and scrolls through his messages- there's several from Lestrade:

_You should come down to the Yard. Got something interesting today. Help us for old times' sake? _

_We're going out for drinks. Come and celebrate with us. Molly's here. _

_If you don't answer once in a while I'm coming to check up on you weekly. _

_You're not the only one who still believes. _

From Anthea:

_Date? Me and you? No Mycroft, and I'll let you kidnap me for once._

_Oh come on and answer me. I know you fancied me. Let's have a little fun tonight ;) I want to go dancing. _

_I give up. _

From Molly:

_I'm sorry. I'm really sorry._

From Harry:

_Come on, John, come and visit me. You can stay here a while. You need out of that place. xx _

_Please come see me. I miss you. xx_

_I'm coming to your place as soon as I can. Once I get a bit of quid, I'll help you move out. Promise xx_

He deletes these. They don't matter. The ones that do are the ones in his sent folder:

_Three months. Don't you think it's enough now? _

_ Sod this, Sherlock, just let me know you're alive!_

_ I won't tell them. I won't. So you'd better come back and discredit yourself all on your own because I won't do it. _

_ I know you're not a fake. _

_ Lestrade probably wants to send me to the bin now. Your brother sent them over to see if I was dead. _

_ I'm going to throw away all of your equipment. _

_ Two years, Sherlock? Two years? _

There had been a whole string more after that. Never responses, but John kept trying. He'd never gone up to the roof to fetch the phone he was so desperately texting. That would ruin the illusion that Sherlock was seeing these messages, that there was someone on the other end of this one-sided conversation.

He opened up a new message. Even typing in _Sher-_ in the address field brought on a strangely painful beat in his chest.

_Alright, you prick,_ he began, _since you insist on staying dead…_

He couldn't finish it. What was he going to say? _My life is so dull and monotonous it nearly isn't worth living anymore. Just like it was before I met you. Getting up in the morning is dreadful, and going to sleep- if I sleep- is a blessing. I'm just staying alive, just barely. But what's the point of just "staying?" _

He hit send on his truncated message and sat back down on the couch until the steam rolling from his coffee dissipated and the cup grew cold, and then he went back to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

A breathy moan broke through John's dreams. He sat bolt upright in his bed and reached for the gun he kept- unloaded thanks to Mrs. Hudson- under his pillow. It wouldn't do much good in the event of a break-in, but it made him feel better to know it was there. A quick glance at his alarm revealed that it was just past one in the morning, and he swung his legs out from under the gray duvet, nearly losing his balance as he tried to stand.

"Hello?" he called out, feeling like an absolute nutter as he pointed the empty gun into the dark. It was likely he'd imagined the sound, hopeful for its return, but because everything on the edge of a dream seems infinitely more real he isn't quite ready to give up his delusion yet. I should really let Lestrade take me in, he thinks, dropping back down onto his mattress. Rather than bouncing, he seems to sink right into the old bed. It might be time to get a new one, but he could care less. He falls asleep sitting up, clutching his gun.

In the morning, Mrs. Hudson comes to visit him. It's a Sunday, and she's taken to making him breakfast once a week, so he isn't surprised to see she's let herself into the flat and has set the table for the two of them. Tea for her, coffee for him, no sugar of course, and- he laughs at the sweetness of the effort she makes- a pile of hotcakes to share with a small crystal vial of syrup waiting, steaming, beside it.

John sits as she scurries in with a tray of baked treats. "I've made too many scones, John!" she chuckles in her matronly way, "You must keep these for me, and eat them up. You're looking a bit peaky lately and I won't watch you starve the way he did."

He has learned not to flinch when she mentions him, because unlike John, Mrs. Hudson openly speaks of Sherlock's death and apparently hopes to get past it that way. John knows that she thinks of both of them as her sons, or at the very least a couple of rowdy nephews whom she looks after constantly, and he knows that she, too, was torn up by Sherlock's parting. But for Mrs. Hudson, the period of grieving has ended, acceptance has come, and though she still mourns for Sherlock in her heart, she realizes it is time to move on. Something John has yet to discover how to do.

It's probably easier for her. She didn't see him splattered on the pavements, his striking blue eyes so bright and yet so empty.

"He was always too thin," he hears Mrs. Hudson add as she sits down opposite him and starts to make her plate. "Eat up, dear, while they're hot."

They eat mostly in silence though Mrs. Hudson tries to make idle conversation about various things- new cases that have come up on telly that have the Yard seeming quite out of their depth, the state of the economy, the weather and her hip.

John raises his head after tearing through several fluffy, syrup-coated cakes, and gives a tight sort of smile. "That was lovely, Mrs. Hudson, thank you again." he says. She coos nervously about the dishes but he says, "No, please leave them, I'll wash up," and smiles awkwardly again.

"Oh, alright," she says in a somber tone. She stands slowly and smiles. They're at an impasse again, because try as she might she isn't sure how to comfort him. "You've had a rough night," she observes, "I heard you shouting in your sleep."

John is aware that he does this, but his face colors anyway. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't wake you."

As she shuffles toward the stairs, slightly hunched, she waves a hand and there is a smile in her voice, but John hears a fatigued tremble that echoes the way his own voice sounds lately. "Oh, I was already up."

When he goes to return her sweets tray an hour later, he stops at the bottom of the stairs and listens. On the other side of the wall, sniffling and squeaking as quiet as a mouse, he hears her crying.

Sherlock features in tonight's dream as well.

"John," he says softly, but his voice is urgent, excited. John becomes slowly aware that they're standing on a rooftop. Probably St. Bart's.

"Please don't do this," he says. "It isn't necessary. There has to be another way."

John stares up at Sherlock, tall Sherlock, wearing his blue scarf in a knot about his neck, his coat collar flapping against his cheekbones as the wind buffets them from all around.

"Whatever remains after you've ruled out every other possibility-"

"Must be the solution. I know." John finishes. "Then you've missed something! There is _something_ else, Sherlock, there has to be."

"There is nothing else, John. This is my note."

"No." John's expression is steely, he's glaring at Sherlock with his mouth set in a rigid line and his head slightly tipped to one side. "No, you listen to me-" He takes a deep breath. "If you can just come down here-" He's shouting now, and standing on the ground rather than the roof. People are milling about, ignoring him as if he were an apparition. Sherlock is too far away, he doesn't have his phone, John is yelling and shaking his head, trying to gesture for Sherlock to back up, to stop this, stop it all-

"John,"

"Stop it, Sherlock!"

"John. Wake up."

Someone's hands are on his shoulders and they're shaking him gently. Someone in the crowd? Perhaps the bicyclist who is about to knock him over. But no, suddenly Sherlock is standing beside him, with his hand on his shoulder, dipping his head to meet John's eyes.

"John, wake up," he says. John watches Sherlock's pale lips form the words.

"If I wake up, you'll be dead," he protests, shaking his head and clearing his throat. "No. No, I don't want to wake up, Sherlock, just give me this. Just a few more minutes."

"John, I'm not dead. I never was. Wake up."

John shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, he is aware of a change in temperature. Something cold is in his hand and there is a weight on his bed. A shadow is frozen ahead of him- at the end of his gun. No, not his gun. Sherlock's. Sherlock's loaded gun. How had he gotten it?

"John," Sherlock says slowly. "Put it down." He is breathing evenly. His eyes flash in the dark, light glinting off the black barrel kissing Sherlock's forehead. "This is not a dream and if you pull that trigger, you will kill me."

John's hand begins to shake and he all but flings the gun away from him. Sherlock lets out a breath and quickly retrieves it, rushing to turn on the light.

"What-" John begins, covering his eyes.

"We need to go. Now. Get dressed." Sherlock says with his normal fast-as-lightning urgency.

"Sherlock?" His mouth hangs open slightly as he tries to find his words again. Nothing seems to come to mind. Sherlock is rushing around his room, stuffing things into a duffel haphazardly. "What the hell is-"

"We don't have time for this, John!" Sherlock snaps. "Get out of bed, grab your gun, and for God's sake put the bullets back in it and stop fantasizing about murdering my brother."

John's heart pounds. "Am I awake?"

"Yes! For the eighth time you are _awake_."

"Then what the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock freezes and turns his head. He picks out the low growl in John's voice, indicating that he's barely restraining himself from attacking the detective. He turns to face him completely, straightens his long coat, and analyzes his stance.

Shoulders trembling but drawn back. Favoring his leg. Pupils dilated, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed. Hands clenched. Jaw increasingly tight.

"You're angry with me."

"Brilliant! Fucking brilliant!" John bursts out. Sherlock approaches him like one would a rabid dog. "Don't take another sodding step, Sherlock." John murmurs, bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a couple of deep, quick breaths. Sherlock is reminded of the way John stood over his grave, shoulders hunched forward, head down, visibly distraught.

Sherlock steps toward him again. "John, I understand you're angry, but we really mustn't waste time on this-"

That's it. John's had enough. Normally he has enough patience to understand that, like a child, Sherlock just doesn't _get_ it. But now, after three years of thinking him dead, after seeing him broken on the sidewalk, his best friend- here he is, in perfectly good health, as if not a day has gone by- certainly not over a thousand- as if he could just waltz in and everything would be fine again.

John swung. Sherlock feinted instinctively but John was quick. The first hit grazed his chin, the next landed quite solidly- and satisfyingly- on his cheek. The infuriating consulting detective stumbled back onto the bed and held the side of his face while John panted and paced.

"Are you done throwing your tantrum now?" Sherlock boomed angrily, narrowing his eyes. John threw him a nasty glance and he could tell that there was already a dark bruise setting out to taint Sherlock's delicate white complexion.

"No!" John screamed, throwing his hands up. "No, Sherlock, I'm not done! You were dead for _three years_ you sodding git! You had us all thinking you'd killed yourself! I _saw_ you! Do you know how many times I've seen your brains being smashed in on repeat in my head like a damn horror movie I can't turn off? Do you?"

"Lower your voice, John, you're going to alert Mrs. Hudson-"

"-who has been crying over you, you machine!"

This gave Sherlock pause. He tilted his head, appearing to not understanding anything that was going through John's mind at the moment.

"Why would it matter to either of you that I was dead?" he asked.

The earnest confusion in his voice disarmed John a little. He stared at his undead best friend and let his expression relax, weighing positives and negatives, logic versus emotion…

"Why do we have to leave, Sherlock?" he asked evenly, trying to make some sense of the whirlwind that had just shaken him from a dead sleep.

"Because he saw me, and now he's coming for you." Sherlock stated, as if it should have been obvious.


	3. Chapter 3

In an hour, they are loaded into a small gray Ford Focus, driving in silence away from the bustle and gray skies of London. John stares out the window and watches streaks of rain mingle on the glass, racing down into other connecting streams and obscuring his vision of the blurry greenery rushing past.

He has said little to nothing to Sherlock, and plans not to speak to him for quite a while, though this does not seem to deter Sherlock from starting up a one-sided conversation.

"Sebastian Moran," he says after a while, calmly, "A sniper for the British special forces." He flicks a glance at John's expression, but can only see the back of his head and the way his hand grips the leg of his trousers at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"Dishonorably discharged for an unknown scandal sometime in the early nineteen-nineties, he was enlisted by Moriarty as an assassin, and quite an able one at that. His list of kills runs on for miles." He stops, waits for some sort of input, some sort of understanding that John cannot hope to deliver. "John, are you listening to me?"

"Mm," John acknowledges.

Sherlock frowns, deep lines of confusion etching themselves between his eyes. "He blames me for Moriarty's death," he explains. "The loss of his income apparently has hit hard since he has few other connections. Moriarty has been his sole employer for-"

"And this has what to do with me and why you faked your own death for three years?" John cuts in sharply. "Stop the car, Sherlock, I think I'm going to be sick." His voice is guttural, disgusted, and dry. His taut muscles ache from being so cramped with what little restraint remained to keep John from trying to throttle Sherlock again.

John is not the least bit surprised that Sherlock merely hands him a plastic bag fished from somewhere between the seats. "It will have to do," he says in answer to John's sidelong glare. But the dirty blonde forces his hand by reaching for the door and letting the wing fly open.

Sherlock swears and the car swerves, hydroplaning somewhat as the detective attempts to regain control on the slick road. He careens to a stop, facing back the way they came and white-knuckling the steering wheel. He looked quite shocked that John had been ready to leap out of the vehicle just to get away from him. Another car screeches past them blaring its horn, windshield wipers throwing torrents of water into John's face as he unbuckles himself and all but throws himself from the seat.

He trudges down into the ditch on the side of the highway and hunkers down as if he were holing himself up in some old trench to think. He sits, not caring that his trousers, his shirt- everything, now- is soaked through. He feels the damp in his bones, he feels soggy and weak. The scorching heat of his fury meets with the icy chill of the rain, and he shivers at the contrast. He tries to control his breathing, but it comes out in brusque puffs, like he's just stepped out naked into the snow.

His fingers curl around the wet blades of grass beneath him. Emerald green, smooth- and oh so delicately rooted. He tears out clumps of saturated earth and presses his fingers into the dirt, sinking them as far as they would go, reaching for the core of the world. Because John Watson's world had been turned upside down and then inverted again, wreaking having with his equilibrium and leaving him feeling permanently tilted.

He knows who Sebastian Moran is, but he doesn't care. He doesn't want to listen to Sherlock recite what would undoubtedly be the most in-depth and complete compilation of Moran's timeline, and he doesn't want to be cooped up in a car with him just now. He hears Sherlock calling him, seeming puzzled and frustrated. John pushes himself up off the ground, straightens his clothes, and starts walking down the long, open highway.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sherlock asks as he pulls up beside him, letting the car crawl slowly to match John's pace.

"Walking."

"So I had assumed. Where are you going?"

"If I wanted you to follow, I'd tell you."

"It's pouring rain, John."

"Wonderful deduction, Sherlock."

The detective is stumped. He sucks his bottom lip and bites down on it in frustration, a firm scowl overtaking his sharp features. "John, I don't think you realize the danger-"

John laughs bitterly. Danger? Welcome back, he thinks. His life has been so impossibly dull. But that doesn't mean he's going to get back into the car with Sherlock, oh no. "Danger is good, Sherlock. Sometimes, danger keeps you alive." He keeps walking, his shoulders stiff, his eyes straight ahead. "I can deal with danger, with our normal bollocks. But do you know what I can't deal with, Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock snaps irritably. "My driving?"

"You-!" John shouts, then catches himself, reins in his anger, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his chin touching his chest. "Mmm," he groans quietly, taking a breath. He has stopped walking. Sherlock waits for him to continue, but when John glances over at him there is something injured on the detective's expression. Of course, it disappears once Sherlock realizes that his expression is betraying him.

"Me? Altogether?" Sherlock says in his low rumble. John hears the snide comment coming on even before Sherlock can utter it, and he shakes his head and interrupts loudly over the rain.

"I think you should leave me alone for a while, all right? I can find my way from here. I'll hitch or something."

Incredulous, Sherlock bites back, "You'll sooner die of pneumonia, and what good will you be to me then?"

"I didn't seem any good to you before. You've apparently done well enough, haven't you? Back from the dead and all." John's voice is deceptively light and agreeable. "I can't imagine how you got yourself out of that one. Tricking God, I joke about it, but-"

Sherlock stops him. "Why do you assume I'd have gone to Heaven?" he asks evenly. He's out of the car now, the collar of his coat up against his cheeks. He ducks his head against the rain and shoves his hands into his pockets.

John snorts and walks further down the highway. Sherlock follows.

"Leave me alone or I might punch you." he warns. Sherlock, as usual, doesn't seem to hear him. John is secretly pleased that he's being pursued- though he might be saying otherwise, his mind is silently screaming for him to return to his place at the detective's side. It's all that he's wanted for three years and now that he has it, illogically, Sherlock would tell him, he's pushing him away.

"Then punch me if you want." Sherlock stops in front of him and pulls his scarf loose with three long, bony fingers. The rain is patting down his black curls, making them stick to his face, and he squints at John through rivulets that drip from his dark lashes. "Punch me and get back in the car."

John sets his feet apart and glowers at Sherlock. He knows the detective is watching his every move to gauge whether or not he's serious, but he won't give him the pleasure of being able to read him like an open book without getting something out of it.

He throws his coat on the ground and imagines that he is clutching all of his anger, his hurt, his feelings of betrayal, his frustration in knowing that he wasn't good enough to aid Sherlock in his latest exploits and that this was the reason he'd gone to such lengths to make him believe he was dead- he puts all of it into his tightly clenched fist and slams it into Sherlock's face. He has a sneaking suspicion that the detective gave him that one for free, but the look of surprise on his face says otherwise. Bright blue eyes flash unexpectedly wide as he staggers back holding the side of his face and watching John as one would regard a pet who's just bitten them. John tackles him to the ground nonetheless, using the tall consultant's stumbling against him and bringing them both crashing down on the wet road.

As they struggle with one another, cars slosh by, and drivers lay on their horns as the two men tumble dangerously closer to the center of the road. "I thought you were dead!" John screams over the blaring noise.

"We've established that, John! I had to make you believe it, otherwise-"

John socks him again just to get him to _shut the hell up_. But then it's Sherlock's turn: the detective rolls, gaining the upper hand, and lands a cutting blow across John's cheek. The next hit just glances off his jaw.

"Otherwise _what_!?" John growls, retaking the high ground and pinning Sherlock's too-thin arms at his sides. "What could have been so beyond my competency that you had to cut us all off and make us think for _three years_ that we'd let you down, that I wasn't good enough to help you-"

"John, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock mutters beneath the sound of the rain, wrenching one of his arms free in order to wipe the blood from his nose with his bony white knuckles. The red has already smeared across his face with the water pelting down on it. He has to duck his head slightly up toward John's just to avoid drowning.

Before he can continue, John reaches forward and takes the front of the detective's coat, twisting it in his hand and yanking Sherlock up to his level. Calculating blue eyes blink several times as John glares down at him. He remembers feeling disarmed, and damning those eyes and that cutting gaze. He curses that self-confident stare, those prominent, conceited cheekbones and thin, pale pink lips; for a fleeting moment he hates that face that has ruined every dream and haunted every nightmare he's had for the past three years. The moment lasts an eternity before John decisively head-butts Sherlock as hard as he can humanly manage without splitting his own skull in two.

In retrospect, it wasn't the best of decisions-it has been a long time since his combat days, when his body was more battle-ready and he himself was a bit more stable. He remembers little bursts of light behind his eyelids and then nothing.

* * *

When he wakes, his aching, soggy bones are draped across the backseat of the car. His cheek presses into the cushion as he watches little droplets of rainwater drip from his fringe onto the mat, and he is faintly aware that the silence is heavier than it should be. It is a Sherlock silence, full of cumbersome deductions and burgeoning plots complete with backup plans for every letter of the alphabet.

"Are you even bleeding?" John bellyaches pitifully, rotating stiffly onto his back like an animal on a spit. He slings an arm over his eyes and sighs, realizing that, most likely, he's wasting his breath. The detective has probably already lifted off to planet Sherlock, to his mind palace, to wherever he'd rather be, and John knows that it should scare him to have a man like that behind the wheel of a vehicle he was occupying. But honestly it came with the territory and he was glad to be, once again, fearing for his life.

They drive for what feels like several days but, Sherlock assures him placidly, has been exactly four hours and eighteen minutes ("When did you get in the back?" he first wishes to know.) Around noontime Sherlock parks the car outside a seedy little establishment whose tattered green awning reads "The Old Bell."

John sits up and stares out the window, wearing an expression of almost comical vexation. "A pub? I've already attacked you twice and you want to add a bit of alcohol to the mix?"

"It's a safehouse," Sherlock replies humorlessly. "I've arranged accommodations for you here until I've dealt with Moran."

John's brows slowly knit themselves together and he shakes his head, realizing 221B had clearly been compromised. "Mrs. Hudson-" he begins, but as usual Sherlock has thought of everything.

"She's being looked after elsewhere," he mumbles, his hands gripping the top of the steering wheel leading John to another realization. The car is left to idle and Sherlock isn't getting out.

"You're looking for a man named Vincent. You'll know him when you see him. Tell him Mycroft sent you-"

"Mycroft?"

"What, you didn't think death would prevent me from using my brother's good name howsoever it befitted my interests, did you? I can't very well use my own."

"Of course not, what was I thinking," John quips quietly, still shaking his head. "But wouldn't you think Mycroft would figure it all out? He's caught us using his credentials before." A bit of a tremor wracks him at his use of the word _us_. It's as if none of it had ever occurred- John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are at it again, sniffing the trail of some new scandal.

"Vincent is expecting you," Sherlock prevaricates impatiently.

It's then that John realizes Sherlock doesn't intend to stick around. But something about that doesn't quite add up. "You came all the way to the flat just to be my cabbie? Wouldn't it have been easier to arrange for a car to pick me up? Nice and anonymous. I would have expected it was Mycroft, you wouldn't have had to reveal yourself at all."

Sherlock doesn't answer him. John wonders silently if maybe he was just tired of his own lonely game- did he just grow bored of playing dead, of hiding in the shadows? Was it the attention he missed? Was it the engaging cases that saved him from abysmal mental stagnation? Was he overdue to one-up Anderson, did he miss Sally Donovan's hateful sneer?

He gets out of the car and stands by Sherlock's window, his hands curled around the edge of the pane. "Come on, Sherlock. Get out of the car."

Sherlock looks up at him and finally John can see that his earlier blackout hadn't been completely for nothing- a thin line of dried blood scrawls down Sherlock's pale forehead and diverges over the bridge of his nose, which appears crooked and definitely broken. Either the detective hadn't felt it necessary to wipe the crimson evidence away, or he honestly hadn't noticed he was bleeding. Whichever the case, it serves to highlight the urgency of his one-track frame of mind.

John frowns at the lack of pride he experiences upon seeing the damage he'd inflicted earlier. Instead, he grapples with pangs of compunction and the need to apologize for acting so rashly. Rather than admit this, he pulls the sleeve of his jumper over his palm and wipes the blood from Sherlock's face as cleanly as he can manage, avoiding his nose, despite the detective's undignified sputtering:

"John, will you desist-"

"Stop being a child. Can you imagine getting pulled over and then taken in for something as silly as forgetting to wash your own blood off your face? Even if you're alive, you're still the disgraced detective wanted in connection with the murder of Richard Brook." John spits the false name in staccato as he lifts Sherlock's fringe to peer into his hairline, critically assessing the damage he's done though he knows it to be minimal. Sherlock swats the doctor's hand from his face and scowls.

"Thank you," he says reluctantly, hesitantly touching the bridge of his nose, "Now please go and check-in with Vincent. Stay inside and don't try to look for me."

John laughs bitterly, but something in the way the action jostles the tension in his chest brings him a bit of unexpected relief. "Why would I look for you, Sherlock?"

The detective gives the sort of smirk that has always infuriated John- the one that belittles and intrigues him all at once. It's the smirk that keeps him guessing, leads him on, ensures that he'll follow the near-autistic, certainly idiotic, beguiling detective through every twist and turn, down every dank alley and sewage pipe, into situations to which no sane human would subject himself. The smirk that tells him that ultimately, everything works out the way Sherlock Holmes wants it to, one way or another. Today is no exception; his faith is not renewed in that faint, cocky, deplorable smirk, for it had never wavered, but today it is strengthened- though Sherlock will have to earn that admission if he wishes to hear it aloud.

"I figure you've had three years of perseverance under your belt," he says. John watches as he absently fingers the pocket of his coat, inside which John knows he keeps his mobile phone. "Why should I expect you to give up now?"

John's jaw drops. "You received every one of them, didn't you?" he accuses, about to reach through the window and throttle him when Sherlock's waiting finger presses down on the button to shut the window. John is forced to move or lose his fingers, but that doesn't keep his fury from carrying through the glass pane in the form of various expletives and oaths.

"That said, I've also elected to hire you a body guard- she should ensure that you stay put." Good dog, John could almost hear in his head. The image of Sherlock patting him on the head would haunt him for days now. "Vincent is waiting."

Sherlock pressed his foot down on the gas pedal and slowly pulled away, leaving John to stare after him, rattled and wading in the no-man's land between indignant rage and slumped-shouldered disappointment at watching the gray vehicle drive away into the rain.


End file.
